


Hello, Beautiful Thing

by LastAmericanMermaid



Series: Rollin' Over [2]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Roller Derby, Fluff, Hell on Wheels 'verse, Humor, M/M, Marriage Proposal, Steve and Bucky are failures, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, extra, seriously so much fluff, total goobers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-08
Updated: 2015-11-08
Packaged: 2018-04-30 16:36:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,493
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5171396
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LastAmericanMermaid/pseuds/LastAmericanMermaid
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first of (I hope) many extras set following my roller derby AU Hell on Wheels. </p><p>Steve and Bucky are both planning to propose; of course, the universe would choose that day to give them a year's worth of bad karma payout. </p><p>(a lot of fluff, and a wedding.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hello, Beautiful Thing

 

Steve can’t seem to get it together.

Everything he’s tried to do today has resulted in stubborn stains, stubbed toes, jammed fingers, windex in his eye, and three changes of shirts due to Steve’s unfortunate tendency to sweat buckets when he’s nervous.

It’s a Friday afternoon like any other; Bucky is out running errands, and Steve is puttering around the house trying to keep himself busy. Only, it’s _nothing_ like a normal afternoon, on account of the fact that tonight, Steve’s got a plain black box burning a hole in his dresser under a stack of socks, and a terror-inducing question doing pre-race stretching at the back of his tongue.

“It’s fine,” Steve says to himself in the bathroom mirror after flushing his chemically-assaulted eye under the faucet. “It’s just dinner. And a proposal. You can do this, what’s the worst that could happen?”

But Steve, being the sort of person who constantly works himself up into a frenzy of anxiety, knows exactly what could happen.

He could fumble his words, or worse; fumble the ring so it falls into Bucky’s food or onto the ground, where it could somehow roll across the floor and fall into a sewer grate (don’t ask how there’s a sewer grate inside the restaurant, okay.) Steve’s palms could be so sweaty that he loses his grip on his drink so it falls into his lap and makes it look like he peed himself. He could throw up.

Then, like a holy vision of serene wisdom, the image of Sam Wilson comes to Steve with a beatific smile and upturned palms.

“Stop being such a loser, Steve,” the golden-dappled Sam-vision says in Steve’s head.

“Right,” Steve nods, and splashes his face with cold water one more time for good measure.

.

Bucky hates shopping.

He never liked it much to begin with, but after he got back from overseas, well. Let’s just say he’d probably rather streak across the field during the Super Bowl in the nude than go to a grocery store for twenty minutes.

Bucky had come (he thought) prepared, armed with a neat list of the ingredients he needs for dinner and a determined glint in his eye, but three minutes inside the store, a screaming toddler had completely derailed him from his quest.

Now, he’s pacing the aisles like a half-crazed man stuck in a complicated hedge maze, though he’s been to this store a hundred times before. Bucky tries to remember where the baking supply aisle is, but when he looks to the signs hanging above each section, his brain somehow won’t make the letters make sense.

“Jesus,” Bucky hisses under his breath. “It’s just dinner. For Steve. Gotta calm down, Sarge. Relax.”

Bucky tries to think what Natasha would say if she were here with him instead of away in England with Peggy visiting with Peggy’s parents.

“You’re acting like a spaz, James. Calm down.” The Natasha in Bucky’s head says in a bored voice.

“I’m afraid she’s right, dear,” a figment of Peggy appears in there too, and Bucky scowls.

They’re even ganging up on him in his mind.

Even so, Bucky squares his shoulders and stomps down the nearest aisle, resolving not to leave the damn store until he’s crossed off every item on his stupid list.

. .

“Stevie? You home?”

Steve curses sharply, shutting the dresser drawer hastily, little finger becoming an unfortunate casualty.

Bucky should have been gone at least fifteen more minutes, but apparently he’s home early.

“Yeah,” Steve hollers back, trying to keep the pain of his throbbing pinkie out of his voice. “Yeah, Buck, I’m here.”

“I was thinking about making something nice for dinner, you in?” Bucky says, leaning against the doorframe.

Dammit. Steve must have forgotten to tell Bucky he’d made restaurant reservations for them.

“Ah, you know,” he starts, but then slumps a little when he sees the hopeful look on Bucky’s face. “Yeah, actually.” Steve says, making a mental note to sneak off to the bathroom while Bucky cooks so he can cancel that reservation. “That sounds great, Buck.”

“Awesome.” Bucky beams, bouncing a little on his toes. “I’ll go start prepping. You just relax. Watch some TV or something.”

“Sure,” Steve tells Bucky’s already retreating form. No, nothing is going the way he’d planned today.

Steve resists the urge to flop face first onto the bed and shout into a pillow.

.

“What’s wrong with this fucking piece of shit-garbage stove, Steve?” Bucky half-shouts, eyeing said-appliance like it might sprout legs and start dancing a taunting jig.

Steve shrugs, which turns out to be the complete wrong move.

“Oh, what, you don’t care? Our bullshit oven chars my beautiful filets to fuckin’ smithereens, and you’re just gonna shrug?” Bucky whirls around, pointing accusingly at Steve, though to somewhat less dramatic effect, due to the oven mitt still on his hand.

“No, Buck, I _do_ care, it’s just—” Steve is floundering and he knows it.

“Just _what?_ " Bucky's eye twitches. "You’d better think real hard about what you’re gonna say next, Rogers,” he says, low and menacing, eyes flashing with the crazy of a chef whose kitchen won’t cooperate.

Raising his hands up in front of himself in surrender, Steve struggles to conjure any sentence that won’t result in him sleeping on the couch.

“We could...always just order in?” He tries, and the force with which Bucky whips an oven mitt at his face could probably clock 60mph on a roadside speed radar.

“Get the hell out of my kitchen, Steve!” Bucky snarls, and Steve definitely doesn’t need to be told twice.

.

After the debacle with the oven, Bucky takes a few long, deep breaths and counts to a hundred and back while sitting in the middle of the kitchen floor in a lotus position.

Then, he sets about making the backup dinner he’d planned; a simple pasta with fresh vegetables and the grilled chicken he’d made a couple of days ago, safely tucked away in the fridge in a little tupperware container.

Thank fuck, it goes smoothly, and Bucky even has time to whip up a little mousse for dessert. When everything is done, he pops the cork on the wine to let it aerate, and calls Steve into the kitchen.

“That depends,” Steve hollers back from the living room. “Are you gonna go all fire breathing dragon on me again?”

Bucky pinches the bridge of his nose, because _honestly_ , he’d think Steve would be a little more sympathetic to Bucky’s frustration.

“That depends,” Bucky replies brightly, “Are you gonna say anything as stupid as ‘we can order in’?”

He hears Steve pushing the footrest of the recliner back into place, and takes a few more baby-sized deep breaths in the time it takes Steve to shuffle into the kitchen.

“It smells great, Buck,” Steve says, a little flicker of terror in his eyes.

“Shut up,” Bucky waves a hand. “Sit down and eat your damn food. I’m trying to woo you.”

When they’re at the table, things relax a little, and Bucky smiles when Steve tries to make smalltalk about their days. Everything seems to be looking up, and Bucky’s trying to work out the perfect moment to do the deed, when Steve reaches across the table for the pepper and knocks the whole, uncorked bottle of wine over.

Red, red wine. Seeping into the tablecloth, dripping down the sides onto the floor, drowning the rest of Bucky’s beautiful pasta in the serving dish.

There is a silence that passes, and Bucky stares at Steve while the now-empty wine bottle rolls off the table and smashes to pieces on the floor.

“Are you…” Bucky gapes at Steve. “Are you fucking kidding me right now?”

“You’re the one who left the bottle there,” Steve snaps, and Bucky sees red.

“Oh, so it’s my fault that you have big, stupid, clumsy arms? Gee, I’m _so_ sorry.” Bucky spits, completely letting go of any hopes of salvaging the night.

“If you had just let me take you to dinner like I’d planned, this wouldn’t have happened!” Steve frowns, voice raising several decibels. “You’re just pissy because you’re not used to your food not coming out perfect.”

Bucky scoffs in disbelief.

“Usually, it’s polite to actually inform someone of dinner plans at some point before the day of the reservation. Otherwise, how else are they supposed to know not to try and make a nice dinner for their ungrateful asshole boyfriend!”

“Oh, so I’m an asshole now?” Steve asks heatedly. “Then I guess we’re a perfect match, ‘cause I was about to call you the same thing.”

“I hate you so much sometimes, you smug sonofabitch.” Bucky shouts, but as soon as the words leave his mouth, he regrets them with a sharp pang in his stomach. “I’m sorry, Stevie. Fuck. I didn’t—I don’t hate you, you know that, right? It’s just that today’s been a nightmare.” He says, voice encroaching on pleading.

Steve looks stung, and Bucky feels like the world’s biggest scumbag.

“I’m so sorry, Stevie, that was a horrible thing to say. Can you forgive me?” Bucky pushes back to stand, try and go around the table to be closer to Steve, but he stops in his tracks halfway.

Glass shards, from the unfortunate wine bottle’s demise, have found their way into the tender, exposed flesh of the sole of Bucky’s foot.

“Mother _fucking_ Christ on a bicycle,” Bucky gasps, gripping the edge of the table and holding his bleeding foot aloft.

Steve springs up out of his chair looking panicked.

“Don’t move,” he orders. “Oh, god, Buck. I’m sorry, this is—just sit back down, okay? I’m gonna go get stuff to clean your foot, fuck.”

Steve is still wearing his shoes, Bucky notices, feeling a little faint after all the yelling and now with the pinching, sharp sting in his foot.

When Steve returns, he cleans up all the glass on the floor and then kneels in front of Bucky’s chair, taking the injured foot gingerly in his hands.

“This is gonna hurt, Buck.” Steve says apologetically, looking up at Bucky in earnest. And, _shit_ , he wasn’t lying.

After twenty brutal minutes with tweezers and alcohol-soaked gauze and a little razor blade to dig out some of the more stubborn shards, Steve presses a cotton pad to the sole of Bucky’s foot and then wraps the whole thing in gauze and tape.

“All done,” he says weakly, groaning as he rises to his feet, knees cracking. “God, you should go lie down while I clean up this mess, I’m _so_ —”

“—I think we’re both pretty damn sorry,” Bucky says, offering a weak smile. “Sit back down for a sec? I think we should probably talk about why we both lost our shit.”

Steve sighs and goes back to his chair, head dipping a little in resignation.

“I’m sorry, Buck. I really wanted tonight to be perfect, but I’ve just been having a hell of a day.” he says defeatedly. “Nothing seems to be going right.”

Bucky shakes his head and slumps in his chair.

“I know, Stevie. I wanted that too—hey, wait a minute,” Bucky narrows his eyes at Steve from across the soiled tablecloth. “Why did you want this to be perfect?”

Steve looks utterly caught-out for a half-second, before crossing his arms and glaring questioningly at Bucky.

“Why did _you?_ ” He asks, frowning.

There is a pause in which someone’s car alarm goes off a few blocks away, chirping and ringing embarrassingly like some carnival booth, and then both men’s eyes go wide and round as they gasp.

“Were you going to propose to me?” They ask in perfect sync. Then, simultaneously again as if they’d rehearsed it, “No way! _I’m_ proposing to _you_!”

Bucky has one hand raised the way he always does when he’s about to argue his point, and Steve’s pointing one finger at Bucky accusingly.

“I can’t believe this shit,” he says, eyebrows raising like they’re trying to ascend.

“Tell me about it,” Bucky concurs, shrugging with his full body.

Another beat, and then the two of them bust up laughing.

Loud, table-rattling, crazed laughter fills the apartment, probably concerning the neighbors.

“You were—” Steve gasps, tears in his eyes, face red from the force of his guffawing.

“I _was_ —and then _you_ —” Bucky wheezes helplessly, sagging into his seat and clutching his stomach.

The ruined, wine-soaked dinner sits between them, forgotten. When the laughter subsides, both men wiping at their eyes and trying to slow their breathing, Steve catches Bucky’s eye.

“So, do you want to, or should I?” He asks, and it takes Bucky a second to work out what Steve means.

When it hits him, though, Bucky feels warm all over, and he reaches into his pocket to get his hand around the little box.

“We could do it at the same time,” he suggests, not fighting the slow smile tugging at his lips. “Like a swap.”

“Like in a hostage situation?” Steve giggles, but reaches into his own pocket as well. “Okay, works for me. Count of three?”

Bucky nods. “One,”

“Two,” Steve raises his eyebrows.

“Three.” They say together, and reach across the train wreck of a table to trade boxes.

Bucky opens his with slightly shaking hands, finding inside a simple band of what to Bucky’s untrained eye looks like palladium.

Also inside, a little folded square of paper, which Bucky hastily opens and sees that Steve has drawn a comic, each panel showing a different point in their relationship.

The last panel is more detailed than the rest; Steve’s hand holding tight to Bucky’s metal one, and below, a little question in neat lettering: _will you?_

Bucky looks up, vision starting to blur a little at the edges. Steve is looking back at him, Bucky’s own earnest, handwritten note clasped in one hand, and Bucky hopes he’ll remember the expression on Steve’s face for the rest of his life.

“So?” Steve asks, voice still holding the barest shade of uncertainty, like there could ever be any answer other than yes.

“If I say yes, will you clean up the disaster area of the kitchen with me?” Bucky smiles, wiping his leaking eyes with the back of his hand.

“That’s not an answer, Buck,” Steve rolls his eyes. “For real, I gotta hear it for real. Humor me, jerk.”

And it all just wells up inside Bucky, heart swelling so big his chest won’t be able to contain it.

“Yes, Steve. You moron, yes. Now, get over here and lay one on me so we can get too wrapped up in our engagement bliss to remember the stupid fight we had and the mess we gotta clean.”

And Steve, never one to deny Bucky anything, does just that.

 

In bed, sweaty and trading breath in a perfect circle, Bucky murmurs against Steve’s lips.

“You never answered me, punk.” his breath is warm and his hands are roaming all over Steve’s back, hips arching to grind their bodies together.

Steve’s brain is practically mush right now, what with the friction and the endorphins, the scrape of Bucky’s stubble against his cheek, but he knows what Bucky means.

“I’ve always been a sure thing when it comes to you, Buck.” Steve doesn’t say the words so much as gasps them; Bucky’s hand has found its way down to the unzipped front of Steve’s jeans.

“Use your words, Captain,” Bucky smirks against Steve’s mouth, wrapping his hand around Steve’s aching cock.

“ _Shit_.” Steve hisses. “You’re an evil fucker, and you frustrate the hell outta me. I wanna spend the rest of my life with you.”

And Bucky laughs breathlessly, kissing Steve hard enough to bruise, rolling on top of him and pinning him to the mattress with his hips.

 

They forget about the dishes, the wasteland on the table, the spilled wine, until midmorning the next day.

. . .

“What are you lookin’ at, pal?” Bucky grumbles sleepily. It’s eight in the morning, sunlight streaming through the bedroom window, and Bucky is so sore he can’t move.

(Apparently, four times in one night is pushing it when you’re not as young and spry as you once were.)

Steve is propped up on his elbow, gazing down at Bucky with a cheeky sort of grin and a glint in his eye that Bucky is choosing to pointedly ignore.

“Aw, nothin’,” Steve sighs bashfully, falling back onto his pillow and pressing a kiss to Bucky’s cheek. “Just feeling gooey about being engaged.”

Then, like a perfectly calculated afterthought, he says, “Jim.” Bucky’s eyes snap open.

“It’s too early for this, Rogers,” he growls warningly, though he knows it’s futile.

“Too early for what, Jimmy? I’m just over the moon about our impending nuptials.” Steve says with grating faux-innocence. “I can’t _wait_ to be Mr. Jim Barnes.”

“I have never liked you,” Bucky tells him, struggling to sit up in the mess of sheets and blanket so he can glare at the little shit next to him. “Why are you doing this to me? I thought you loved me.” Steve bats his eyelashes.

“Of course I love you,” he sighs dreamily. “My sweet Jimmy B, always so—”

But Steve never gets to finish that particular taunt, because Bucky whacks him in his stupid face with a feather pillow, and then, the game is on.

 

Fifteen minutes later, breathless and in need of a shower, Steve gets up to do just that.

Bucky smacks Steve’s ass just hard enough to leave a reddish-pink mark, smirking when Steve yelps in surprise and whips his head around to scowl.

“Every time you call me ‘Jim’ I’m gonna slap that pretty ass of yours,” he drawls, hair a glorious mess, a mix of his own and Steve’s come drying on his stomach.

Steve feels himself flushing because _damn_ , he could maybe get behind an idea like that.

“You know, that doesn’t exactly make me want to stop calling you—”

“— _don’t_ say it,” Bucky warns lightly, hand poised in midair.

But Steve has never been able to keep his mouth shut when he really, really should, so he dashes out into the hall towards the bathroom and shouts,“Jimbo!”

Then, Steve hightails it into the shower, cackling and squirming as Bucky presses him up against the cool tile and gives him his due.

. . .

“Let me get this straight,” Natasha’s voice is dangerously emotionless as she looks from Steve to Bucky from across the booth at their favorite breakfast spot. “You two pieces of garbage actually proposed on the same day, at the same time?”

Beside her, Peggy is staring down at her waffles, shoulders shaking with silent amusement.

“Yep,” Bucky doesn’t even bother trying not to sound smug. He finds Steve’s hand under the table, lacing their fingers together and giving his fiancé’s palm a squeeze.

“It was the damnedest thing,” Steve adds, with his patented _butter wouldn’t melt in my mouth_ -look. “What are the odds?”

“I don’t believe this,” Natasha says sourly, stabbing at her hash browns with more aggression than is customary for their consumption. “I’ll never forgive you for this, James. You’re on my shit list for all time.”

Peggy snorts, inky-dark eyes twinkling. “I’m sure it isn’t all that serious, kitten. Aren’t you pleased for them?”

Natasha’s nostrils flare and she fixes Bucky with a look before relaxing into her seat and rolling her eyes. “

Have you guys told anyone else yet?” She asks, dumping more hot sauce on her food.

“Not a soul,” Bucky promises, and that seems to smooth some of Natasha’s ruffled feathers.

“Wait, Buck, we did tell Sam,” Steve says suddenly, and Bucky definitely does not shriek when Natasha’s foot makes contact with his shin.

. . .

 

When Bucky and Steve get married, it’s not a huge affair.

(The ceremony is performed by Sam Wilson—who just happens to be licensed—at the cemetery where Steve’s mom and dad are buried side by side, just Natasha, Peggy, and Bucky’s parents in attendance. It’s a sunny day near the end of May, and the air is balmy and heavy with pollen. Steve takes two extra-strength antihistamines but still sneezes through the vows.)

The reception, though, is only as modest as Tony would allow, as he refused to take no for an answer when he offered to throw it for them.

The place is big and elegant, but still somehow cozy with all the antique armchairs in the halls and crystal chandeliers in the lobby. Every person Steve and Bucky know is there, from Steve’s old hockey teammates to Bucky’s huge, embarrassing extended family. Logan makes a toast so hilarious--not to mention full of four letter words--that more than a few people whip out their phones to get it on video.

 

“You’re coming to the barbecue Memorial Day weekend, right?” Bucky’s sister Rebecca asks Steve by the open bar, one eyebrow raised and looking eerily like Bucky. “The kids haven’t shut up about you since you face painted at Ava’s birthday party.”

Steve grins sheepishly; he’d probably had just as much fun as the four-year-olds at that party. Something about young kids has always made Steve feel like the world can’t be such a terrible place.

“Wouldn’t miss it,” he assures Rebecca, scanning the crowd of guests for Bucky, who managed to slip away between cocktails and thanking people for coming.

Then, the lights go dim and Tony Stark’s voice echoes through the reception hall through the speakers, and Steve wishes he wasn’t holding a drink so he could facepalm.

“Friends, Romans, countrymen and derby dames,” Tony drawls in his best emcee-voice. “In lieu of the traditional first dance, one of our grooms has something a little different planned. Where is the good Captain Rogers?”

Steve has no idea what’s going on, though he thinks he should probably be very afraid. Instead, because it’s his wedding day, he sucks it up and raises his hand.

“I’m right here, Tony,” he says loudly, and immediately wishes he hadn’t when a spotlight shines blindingly into his eyes. “ _Agh!_ What the fuck!?”

But then there’s light at the stage where the jazz band had been playing, and Steve’s knees go liquid and his mouth goes dry because Bucky’s wearing a white t-shirt with the sleeves rolled up, ripped blue jeans with a bandana hanging from one pocket.

“Don’t say I never did anything for ya, Stevie,” Bucky purrs into the microphone, then the band launches into a the fully electric opening bars of one of Steve’s all-time favorite Springsteen songs, _I’m a Rocker_.

And it’s…it’s _so_ beyond romantic-comedy-level of cheesy, this kind of gesture, but Bucky’s voice is too good, the way he slinks and moves with the music with the fluid swagger of an actual frontman…well. Steve’s too mesmerized to care about cliches.

Everyone is clapping in time with the upbeat drums, and Steve can’t believe that after three and a half years, Bucky can still shock him into breathless silence with a stunt like this.

The crowd parts so Steve is alone in the center of the dance floor, and Bucky hops off the stage, still killing it, so he can slink over to where Steve is standing, singing with a shit-eating grin.

When it gets to the final verse, Bucky slides down to his knees, slick as a cat, playing the part so well it makes Steve dizzy. Bucky has one fist in the air as he nails the last ‘Everyday,’ and when the band ends the song with a tight crash, everyone in the whole place loses their minds.

Bucky grins up at Steve, still on his knees, forehead glistening with sweat, panting a little.

“Get up here, you impossible jerk,” Steve growls, but instead finds himself down on his knees too, thanks to one swift yank to the edge of his jacket from Bucky.

“Nah,” Bucky beams and says into the microphone he’s still holding, one hand fisted in the fabric of Steve’s shirt. “‘M exhausted. Better you come to me.”

Everyone catcalls and whistles when Steve grabs the mic out of Bucky’s hand and holds it out of reach so he can kiss the smug look off his husband’s face.

 

The reception, after Bucky's likely to become legend-status performance, turns into a full-on banger. Thor Odinsson teaches a bunch of them traditional Norwegian drinking songs, and someone lets Sam and Maria do some Coyote Ugly-style dancing on top of the bar. Steve dances with Bucky's mom, who tells him blithely that she'd love it if he would pose shirtless in a Santa hat for their family Christmas card. Carol and Peter make it their mission to photobomb anyone taking a picture with a phone. Maria catches the bouquet Bucky had insisted Steve toss, and Darcy Lewis spends most of the party riding around piggyback style on Pietro. Charles Xavier gets absolutely shitfaced and has to be carried home by his scary husband. Bucky and Steve can't seem to stop grinning like a couple of saps. 

 

Oh, and the cake is pretty damn good, too. 

. . .

When they’re lying in bed, too tired to do much more than take off their tuxes and chuck them to the floor, Bucky says softly, “Steve?”

“Yeah, Buck?”

“You know what comes next, right?”

And Steve does; he knows he’s in for one hell of a ride, a stretch of road so long he can’t hope to make out the end. It makes his stomach dip like a rollercoaster, and he doesn’t think that’ll ever stop.

“Yeah, Buck.” He replies, pulling Bucky a little closer and smiling up at the ceiling in the dark. “I think I do.”

Bucky snorts, the puff of air tickling the side of Steve’s neck and making him squirm.

“No, I mean for real. Every time we visit my parents, my ma is gonna drop some real unsubtle hints about grandkids.” He says, and the smile freezes on Steve’s face.

“Whuh—” he splutters, feeling suddenly wide awake. “Grand— _grand_ kids? _Agh_.” He coughs.

Bucky laughs, in Steve’s opinion, quite insensitively.

“Welcome to the Barnes family, Stevie.”

“I don’t,” Steve gasps. “What?”

“Go to sleep, loser. I’ve been evading my mother’s badgering for years now. I’ll take care a’you.”

. . .

 

Six months later, when Bucky’s brother and his wife come for Christmas with their 18-month-old twins Charlotte (Charlie) and Bridget, Bucky looks away from a conversation with his cousin Dean and almost spills his eggnog; Steve is holding Charlie and cooing softly at her, a dangerously soft look in his eyes that spells nothing good.

“Looks like your guy just got hit with a wave of baby fever,” remarks Rebecca with a smirk.

“Not another word,” he points a warning finger at his sister.

 

(Later, Bucky holds his little niece Bridget and marvels at how big her brown eyes are, how strong she clutches his metal finger. “Oh, shit,” he says to no one. “I think I caught it too.”)

**Author's Note:**

> I love this AU so much, I figured I'd make a good faith payment in the way of extras before I get down to the nitty gritty with my other WIPs. 
> 
> Leave me some love, and I hope you enjoyed! <3 ^___^


End file.
